Chronicles of Reactions
by Assassin Exile
Summary: The Dragonborn has been found. Reactions to his presence, demeanor, and acidic wit are chronicled here. Series of related one-shots. Scene/Character submissions accepted. See Author's Note for details.


**A/N:** Just a one-shot I wrote to help myself get out of this case of writer's-block, so I can work on Collapse. I've decided to accept scenes or characters (In-game NPC's, please) that you would like to see a written. Notice though, that this is about NPC reactions _to_ the Dragonborn. If you request the Dragonborn's reaction to an event, I hold the right to my own discretion—just a hint, if it's too good to pass up, I'll give it more consideration. Leave suggests in the comments or send a PM.

Thane

He had barely known him for a half a day, yet he felt he already knew most of the Dragonborn's peculiarities. Jarl Balgruuf allowed himself to settle deeper into his throne, taking a rather indignant position as a result, and threaded his fingers through the blonde hairs of his beard. The reptilian creature before him cut an imposing figure, matching many Nords in height, if the impressive display of horns was discounted.

The lizard had just returned with report of the Western Watchtower, arriving mere minutes after the thunderous summons of the Greybeards. The irony was not lost on the Jarl. Many Nords highly disapproved, an understatement really, of the presence of any Mer, Khajiit, or Argonian in Skyrim, yet one of their numbers possessed the power of the fabled warrior known as Dovahkiin, the highest honor of any Nord.

"If you would accept, Dragonborn, before you journey to High Hrothgar, I would like to offer you accommodations for the night." He leaned slightly forward, in part to drawing the lizard's attention, another to convey interest to his choice.

A soft smirk played his lips as the lizard's shoulders fidgeted, his gently sculpted neck rolling slightly. Since the Argonians' facial structure and leathery hide was not given to emotional displays, body language was imperative to the race's communication. The gesture just given, for example, displayed mild discomfort, in a contemplative sense.

A second's breadth later, the reptilian head nodded. The baritone of his voice, mostly absent of the hissing accent of his brethren, caressed the ears of all who heard it. "I accept your most _gracious_ offer, Jarl Balgruuf."

Balgruuf's smirk broke into a full grin, even as he felt Protentious bristle from the sarcasm, and a waved hand silenced the steward's impending rebuke. By stating the offer in the guise of a gift, he had baited the lizard into accepting. It was implied among nobility that to refuse a gift offered was rude and insulting. The Dragonborn had no doubt recognized this and, as was one of those "peculiarities," had hidden his discomfort of the attention and generosity behind the screen of a quip. The Jarl settled back contentedly into his throne, watching as the Argonian took notice of the glint of mirth in his eyes. Tension bled from scaly shoulders at their little game drew to a cease-fire.

"Excellent." Amusement colored his voice as his hand bid a servant to him. "Elva, show the Dragonborn to my personal guest quarters, spare him nothing." His gaze found the lizard's solid cobalt eyes once more. "Again, accept my thanks for what you have done for my people. Despite your . . . colorful past, it is an honor to have you stay in my house. May you rest well, Dragonborn."

-=\+/=-

Lydia strode through the halls of Dragonreach, the soft _tunk_ of armored boots her only companion. After receiving the Jarl's summons, she was directed by Protentious to the guest quarters. It seemed she was leaving her post as a member of the Jarl's personal guard and was being assigned as housecarl to a Thane. Though he hadn't offered much in detail, the steward did tell her the Thane was dragonborn, and woefully lacking in proper court etiquette as well.

She couldn't help but smirk at Protentious's explanation of how the Dragonborn had actually _quipped_ at the Jarl's most generous offer. She was an obvious choice, as she had proper court training and a better tolerance of people than most Nords. She was also deeply committed to her service of Skyrim and its laws. Protentious had made it clear that she was, in part, to "keep him from . . . deviousness."

She arrived at the door, stopping only a moment to listen, before drawing her hand back to sharply rap on the wood. It opened a moment later, a young Nordic servant girl wrapping herself around the door's edge.

"Elva." The housecarl smiled lightly, "The Thane, is he here?"

"Yes." Few knew the light, song-like quality to the girl's voice was due to a partial elven lineage, "He is in the bath still, I believe." She paused to admit Lydia entrance. "I was just mending his armor and garments."

Lydia stopped to just long enough for Elva to shut the door, before the pair strode to the armor stand across from the foot of the massive bed. The room's spacious interior was finely furnished, its purpose to provide exceptional comfort to esteemed guests of the Jarl. Lydia didn't bother with a proper examination of the room, instead giving her attention to her Thane's choice in armor.

The set was definitely worn and obviously cared-for, if somewhat haphazardly, testament to the limited supplies and wandering demeanor of the owner. However, it was the material that caught her eye. It was solid ebony. She had the fortune to have seen a full set of the armor once before, though this set was nowhere near as ornate. It was functional and conservative, no fancy flares or draping loin plates. The joints were cuffed by the underlying fabric, though Lydia concluded it was to muffle movements as well as insulate against the cold.

"Were you assigned as his housecarl?" Elva spoke again, from her knelt position. Her fingers expertly sewed the torn fabric around the boot's cuff.

"Aye, Protentious told me he is dragonborn." Her hands slowly pulled a feathered hood from its place against the armor's back. The black feathers were sewn directly into the navy fabric, giving the entire garment the look and feel of a raven's body. Her fingers slowly edged along the talons lining the hood's hem. "What kind of feathers are these? From what bird?"

Her stomach lurched slightly at the trepidation in Elva's eyes. "Hagraven."

Lydia dropped the garment, her retreating steps stopping no less than a meter from the mannequin. Her eyes remained glued to the offensive cloth, as it settled unceremoniously to rest on the armor. Disbelief colored her features as the accursed word fled her lips.

She dropped her voice to barely a whisper. "He's of the Forsworn!?"

The confusion on Elva's face helped to settle her rising fear, and the curt shake of her head alleviated any anxiety. She listened as the servant informed her that he was neither Nord nor Breton. Lydia's own confusion grew to match Elva's, as what expectations she had for her Thane were shattered. She was about to ask when manner of Man or Mer he was when the door to the bath house opened.

Lydia turned in place to greet who she assumed was the Thane, only to stop short. Elva had been only partially correct, not only was he neither Nord nor Breton, but neither Man nor Mer. The doorway was filled with the distinct form of an Argonian. The dim lighting from the goat horn lanterns played across onyx skin, the creamy surface of his chin and throat contrasting elegantly in the illumination. He was clad only in a set of dark trousers, the slight moisture clinging to the rough garment a clear indication he has only just exited the bath.

_He's beautiful._

The traitorous thought was quickly and efficiently cut off by Lydia's more rational professionism, but she couldn't deny the implication. His still-moist repitilian skin, callous from travel and weather, stretched across toned muscle, not sculpted, but fit, powerful. A set of white horns jutting from his cranium, adorned by a row of equally white spines down the center to the nape of his neck. Smaller, similar horns lined his low, prominent brow, though these curved slightly forward. Overall, he wasn't a large specimen, rather thin from uneven eating habits.

She stepped forward, making a point not to stare, and met the solid cobalt pearls, their only additional feature being the faint slit pupils. Years of discipline forced her voice into a practiced naturality, "Honored to meet you, Thane."

Her head dipped in submissive respect. "I have been assigned by the Jarl as your personal housecarl. I look forward to traveling with you."

She paused for a moment, but he said nothing, choosing instead to pull the towel from his shoulder and toss it on the bed, which he had approached during her brief examination, before turning back to face her. She duly noted from the corner of her eye that Elva had strode over to take the cloth, but Lydia maintained a respectful eye-contact with the lizard. His eyes briefly examined her, and she half-expected some sarcastic remark similar to the one Protentious had mentioned. He surprised her by deftly walking past her to stand before his armor.

Lydia's jaw went slack, even as she watched Elva scurry to his side, the towel draped across her arms. She winced as the Dragonborn slid a hand under the feathered hood, examined it, and folded it back over the pauldrons. She hoped that didn't blow back on Elva. He said nothing, however, and instead brushed his clawed hands over the bicep bands and gauntlets. Seemingly satisfied, he took a few septims from the armor's coin purse and pressed them into the servant's hand.

"Thank you."

Lydia was surprised by the lack of hissing in his accent as he spoke; though it was still present, it was controlled, allowing the richness of his baritone tremor the air. He turned back to his armor and crossed his arms, dismissing her. She left, but as she opened the door, her eyes turned to cast a confused, shock ridden gaze at the lizard, before returning to the gold coins in her hand.

Lydia stared at the place Elva had disappeared from her vision, her mind slowly mulling over the strange occurrence. There had been no arrogance in his voice, only sincerity, so he wasn't flashing his wealth like most nobles made a habit of doing—her thoughts briefly slipped to the local plantation owner, Nazeem by name. The gentle baritone pulled the image from her mind, as this time it was directed at her.

"Lydia . . . am I correct? Balgruuf made some mention of you." His voice was even and disconnected, like he was genuinely disinterested in conversation, not in an arrogant way, just . . . simply disinterested.

"Y-Yes, my Thane." Her words stammered slightly at the sudden uptake of conversation, but her confidence quickly reinstated itself. "I have been assigned as a housecarl- . . ."

He turned suddenly, twin cobalts silencing her with their gaze. It was then Lydia noticed the blood-red war paint circling them. Similar paint was applied on either side of his snout, curling up from his lip, beside his indigo laugh lines, then back across his cheekbones. It pooled in the recesses of his cheeks, just above the triad of horns lining his jaw. Farther back, three jagged lines cupped his neck. Lydia had earlier seen those lines merge at his spine and flow down to his waist, branches emerging to follow each rib around to his sternum.

He gestured with his hand as he spoke. "I have no need for such things. All I own is on this stand here. I have no estate, no family. I am a Saxhleel of no ties. My homeland is lost to me." He stopped, his gaze returning to her, as it had wondered away. He looked as a man who had spoken too much, but then decided to finish to thought, as the harm was already done. "Even the Hist have grown deaf to my cries."

She balked at the last phrase. She hadn't been in contact with Argonians prior to this, but her education had included a brief summary on each race in Tamriel. The Argonian lessons had actually be a _lesson_, but it had mentioned the lizards' reverence to the Hist. An Argonian who was rejected by the Hist . . .

"What I have need of, however, is a companion." He was now standing directly before her, towering slightly above her. As this range, she became to notice the numerous, minute scars dotting his body. "If you would, I would ask something of you."

"Anything, my Thane."

"Do not use such a title to address me. I am Tempered-Shadow, and as you share my road, and travel my journey, so are you my equal, and I yours. You are not to endanger your life in exchange for mine any more than is sensible. We will watch for one another, but if I fall, you are not bound to die for or with me."

To say the least, she was flabbergasted. Never had she heard from any housecarl of such an occurrence, and she was at a loss as to how to handle a situation such as this. He was essentially commanding her to deny her vows as a housecarl, vows she had taken only minutes ago.

He had crossed his arms again, awaiting her answer. If she refused him, he would no doubt leave her behind, perhaps purchase the newly available Breezehome just to give himself the excuse. She wasn't sure what his financial situation was, just how many septims the armor's purse housed, but something told her he could probably afford the initial payment. If she accepted his terms, she could at least maintain her position at his side . . .

The decision seemed to have been made for her.

"As you wish . . . Tempered-Shadow."

He nodded slightly, and for a moment, she saw approval slip into his eyes. He turned away, slowly plodding over to a small weapon rack, and pulled a large battle axe from its fittings. He returned to her, arms outstretched to present the axe.

"Balgruuf gifted me with this as a 'badge of office'. It's yours, if you'll take it; I have no need for such . . . inelegant weaponry."

She took the massive blade from his grip, slowly shifting it between her hands. The weight was centered perfectly, and the faint shimmering at the opposing edges indicated the use of an enchantment. Of course, if it was from the Jarl's armory, such things were to be expected.

When she looked up, Tempered-Shadow was no longer there. He was behind her, by the bed, thumbing open a tome. She didn't know much about magic, but she did recognize the symbols for "destruction" and "lightning" emblazed on the cover.

So he was a mage, a storm mage, from the choice of tome. She silently wondered why a storm mage would prefer the heavier variants of armor, a battle-mage then? She looked about the room and spied an ebony shield and hunting bow. Definitely a battle-mage.

She turned back to Tempered-Shadow to see him sitting experimentally on the bed's edge. After a moment of discomfort—no doubt from the softness—he pulled himself into a cross-legged position in its center, tome in hand. Lydia saw this as her cue and took her leave.


End file.
